Gloves
by Whil-o-whisp
Summary: Christophe x Gregory, mildly fluffy, includes the symbolism of clean hands and gloves, and kidnapping, and murder. NOT A DEATH FIC.
1. Gloves pt 1

_**Gloves**_

whil-o-whisp

1,430 words

South Park, Gregory x Christophe/The Mole

A/N: This might continue as a multi-chaptered story, but this can be read alone. : D I'm broadening my horizons and writing this from Gregory's point of view, first person, something I don't usually do. I want all americans to have a fantastic turkey week, and if any other countries have holidays within this week, Happy Holidays!

Disclaimer: I own..... nothing.... except amazing ninja skills.... yep....

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"Afternoon, Christophe." He ignores me, moving immediately to my kitchen for his precious coffee. I swear he has an addictive personality, first cigarettes, then coffee. He must never sleep. At least I don't have to remind him where the coffee and mugs are. There are some… perks to familiarity. He has come over to my house nearly every afternoon this week, though with the circumstances, I am not surprised. From my information, This past Sunday was the anniversary of his mother's divorce, a rather painful ordeal for the family, though Christophe could not have been more than a year old at the time.

He has no finesse, knocking the glass mugs about searching for the one he has used every afternoon. A creature of habit. He sits in the same spot on my couch, he uses the same mug from my kitchen, he smokes the same brand of cigarettes he did when he was a child; any low rate hit man could figure him out. Well, as if any low rate hit man could overpower Christophe. And After the bullet ordeal in the eighth grade, it'd be hard pressed to get a killing shot off anywhere but his head.

"That's an unnerving train of thought…" I have this irritating habit of speaking to myself; I really must try to stop it. You never know who could be listening in and some things needn't be said in others company. Besides, Christophe would love to point out that particular downfall. Well, he's got enough flaws to rebuke it, so I needn't worry. The boy truly must train himself better, a creature of habit, addictions, a modus operandi that can be easily identified and unique to his person, really, its only through sheer brute force and a French man's luck that he's lasted to seventeen.

Seventeen… Not even a year till he is considered a full adult, able to vote and move out of his retched home. Christophe living alone and voting for our future presidents is a rather frightening idea. I really must look into what his plans are for adulthood, if he has any. I highly doubt he will go to Colorado State. Too close to home. Will he go to college at all? I have reason to doubt he will, he despises people so much, I'm surprised he hasn't dropped out of high school. He would deny it profusely, but I believe it's for his mother's pride. Merely a speculation though.

"What iz an unnerving zhought?" That voice is still so very French, and gravely, more so than when we were children, if I were to venture a guess. Must he maintain that 'smoking, French, mercenary' stereotype? Really now. The couch dips as he sits beside me, his seat, always beside me. He is the longest lasting mercenary, all others falling, retiring, or failing. Failure is not an option for lesser Mercenaries than Christophe. Failure isn't a word for ones like him. To fail for the 'big shots' means death, if not at the hand of their target, then a lesser enemy who takes the rebounded opening.

I hope one of these days Christophe will retire from this line of work. While it will hurt me financially for quite some time, it would be best for his health and well being. Few in this profession, mercenary or informant, live very long, and Christophe is too talented, too intelligent to fall to some low-grade mercenary or self-righteous 'do-gooder'.

"Merely mulling over some information, Christophe, nothing for you to worry over." He takes this as an answer, not a truthful one, but an answer. He seems to have a knack for knowing when he's lied to. Makes being his informant terribly complicated. "I hope you didn't murder any of your classmates today, Christophe. The Junior year needn't be thinned out." And his mother did not need the added stress of more calls from Christophe's School Counselor. Neither did the School counselor for that matter. The man's hair was nearly white from the unfortunate coincidence of having Eric Cartman, Kyle Broflovski, Stan Marsh, **and **Kenny McCormick on his roster. The disadvantage of having only two counselors is that one gets A-M, and the other gets N-Z, and sometimes, troublemakers are grouped together.

It doesn't help that Christophe slots perfectly into the M part of this equation. His only reprieve is that he does not also have Tweek Tweak as a patient.

"Non." I really must inform him the meaning of a rhetorical question. I would know by now if he had murdered one of my upperclassmen. We sit in silence for some time, or near so. I type and he smokes and drinks his coffee noisily. No manners. Sometimes I must remind myself why I even put up with this man. He's crude, ill mannered, inconsiderate, rude, and works in my line of work, none of which I find endearing qualities.

Has he been watching me this entire time? Couldn't have, I would have noticed, wouldn't I? Surely so. He doesn't distract me nearly that much, I assure you. "Eet isn't cold." What an odd thing to say.

"What?" Oh how intelligent I must sound. Well its not as if he was at all clear in his statement in the first place. He reaches down and grabs my wrist, thumbing the top of my black leather gloves. Ah. The Gloves. Symbolism I should really be too good for. Another thing I cannot lie to Christophe about. The children at school and mother and father can believe what they want, whether it be that I am cold or am obsessive compulsive, they are too simple to guess the truth. If I were cold, I would be wearing my coat, instead of a short sleeve shirt and gloves, counterintuitive if one wants to warm up, and if I were obsessive compulsive over textures, I would not have such a diverse wardrobe, or take my gloves off, which is something I do happen to do on occasion.

He has tried to break me of this symbolist habit since I attempted to lessen his nicotine consumption. The symbolism of clean hands. I find it rather amusing actually, that it bothers him so much, the fact that I wear these gloves to keep my hands from getting dirty. He is the mercenary, he is the one getting into the 'nitty gritty' of murder and theft and breaking and entering of compounds most young adults do not even know of. I am merely the informant, I give him his jobs and he does them for me. I know how to work a gun, but have not shot anyone; I know knife work and code breaking but only through curiosity, not necessity or profession. I have never killed, nor stolen (physically. I don't count monetary amounts, and even then I did not steal it for myself, and it came from sources who stole it first), or physically broken the law. I am clean.

"You are never cold, Christophe, who are you to judge?" He lets it slide, because it's the truth, and for the moment I have avoided the conversation. He is the only child in South Park to wear a short sleeve shirt, even if he wears two of them, in the winter months. He also wears gloves, though his lack mine's symbolism. They are merely protection from the innumerous welts and splinters he had grown tired of. Maybe a metal shovel shaft is in order, though I do not believe he'd use it. For reasons unknown to me, his splintered, old, blood stained, chipped and damaged shovel seems to hold some sentimental weight in Christophe's mind.

We again sit in silence, though not uncomfortable. I enjoy the silence whilst in Christophe's company, because it means he is not smoking, and his drink lays still. He is giving me his attention, his thought, and nobody else. I enjoy the silence because we are not working, and we are not at school, an upperclassman whom people fear, and the pleasant underclassman who is well liked who must keep up standards, and we are not friends for his mother's benefit. We are Christophe and Gregory, a strange mixture between coworkers and lovers, friends and enemies, adults and children.

I lay my hand on his thigh, palm up while watching the snow fall outside. His hand falls nicely into mine, gloved palm against gloved palm, the same, and gloved, clean fingers against blistered, calloused, dirt covered, ashen fingers, different.

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I hope you enjoyed, please review and favorite :)


	2. Coffee Mugs

_**Coffee Mugs**_

_Whil-o-whisp_

_Fandom: South Park, ChristophexGregory_

_A/n: LAWLAWLAWLAWLAWLAWLAWL, have fun alright? this took a long time to beta and edit, but very little time to write. There were a bunch of delays when it came to the editing process because my beta (my sister, Lynda, who is amazing and snarky and totally awesome and you should all tell her to write for me because she has stories to write and won't do it) took a week to get the email I sent her and then I had to reemail it to her because i had copied and pasted it instead of attaching it and then it took her a couple days to read it the first tme through and then again to read the second time through and edit and then when I got it back with all the highlighted bits I shut down and then finals and I FINALLY got it edited and finished. It still isn't perfect though... Enjoy though :D_

_Disclaimers: Yes... we have no bananas! We have no bananas today!_

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It is rather unusual for him to be taking so long. I know for a fact that he isn't home; I called his mother earlier before she departed for work. Christophe walks home usually, mostly due to the fact that parking near the school means parking near his schoolmates, who would love nothing more than to destroy something of his. He would hate to have his precious vehicle scratched or dented by some condemned fool. I however highly doubt any of his classmates would actually DO anything to Christophe's precious vehicle. From what I've heard, he's made it quite clear what will happen to any who try.

Still, it is rather peculiar for him to not be here. A creature of habit doesn't suddenly change his daily routine. He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself though, wherever he may be, even without his shovel, so I needn't worry. He has his gun, and brute strength, and he's smart, smarter than even he thinks. I suppose that is the problem: he is intelligent, but does not put it to use. It will get him killed one day, I am sure.

And I shudder. I actually shudder at that thought. Interesting. "Maybe I should think of something else." I stand from my seat on the couch, right beside his spot, and move to the kitchen. His mug is resting upside down in the sink; it hasn't been washed since he left. I pick it up, running my thumb over the writing on the side. I made this mug a long time ago when we were mere children. I couldn't have been more than six or seven. The side has my name on it, in what I then deemed my best cursive, and on the bottom is my family's crest, something most South Park citizens do not even know the definition of. I chuckle at the sentimentality that this is _his _mug.

It hasn't been his mug for very long. A few years ago, shortly before the winter holidays, he came over to my home for a visit, or more, to escape his mother. My parents were gone on a business trip and his mother was looking for anything about her son to criticize. The moment he arrived, he began searching for a coffee cup to use. He didn't want to use my father's mug, and the others my mother had painted a pretty lavender color in her free time. Christophe deemed them too effeminate to drink from, so he chose my mug. The one I, at the time, drank hot cocoa from during the winter months.

We fought for almost an hour about that ceramic mug. I almost broke it twice before Christophe decided he had won and poured himself some coffee, ignoring me for the rest of the evening. He has been using it ever since.

I take a dishrag from a drawer and wet it in the sink, running the damp cloth over the mug. Somehow I find menial chores calming. Peculiar maybe, especially when one accounts for my social class, but Christophe finds nicotine and caffeine calming substances, something I simply can't understand. I lean against the counter, gripping the mug with slim, gloveless fingers. I am not wearing my gloves today, something, I would hope, Christophe would be proud of. But he wouldn't be, because he is never openly proud of anything but his own accomplishments. Narcissism, I think it's called. He'd admit to it, too.

I laugh quietly, taking the dry end of the rag and wiping off the damp sides, but my good mood does not last long. I feel, for some reason, uneasy. I reach into my pocket to check my phone, but its not there. I left in my room this morning by mistake, and I haven't yet gone up to check it. No matter, Christophe despises text messaging and I highly doubt he'd call my cell phone. He doesn't like speaking on the phone because apparently nobody can understand his horrid accent. I rather like it in person. Over the telephone though, I cannot understand a single word, in French, or in English.

I place the mug by the sink and move to the cabinet, pulling out the expensive brand of ground coffee I had bought Christophe for Christmas. He had once offhandedly told me it was 'pretty good', and I decided that 'pretty good' meant he wanted it. So he got it, despite his protests, or perhaps because of them. Torturing my favorite mercenary is a hobby of mine, I must admit.

It is a very different type of torture than what his mother uses. I abhor the torture he receives at the hands of his mother, psychological and insane. That woman needs to be placed on some new medication, but I digress, Christophe's mother will never change. That is why he stays at my home. He can smoke whenever he wants (as long as I do not have company over) and he can have his morning, afternoon, and evening coffee in peace.

Every morning I sit and watch him make his coffee, though being impatient, making a mess might be more accurate. Saying he's not a morning person is a vast understatement. Several times he's burned himself with the decanter, or spilled coffee down his front during his morning lethargy. He never watches the coffee pot, though, usually moving to sit across from me, our bare feet brushing against one another, something cinemas over dramatize. He smokes as I read the paper or scan the World Wide Web for political news. Sometimes we look at each other, I smile at him, and he almost smiles back, nothing overly romantic and substantial, just morning lethargy. And when the bell on the timer rings, he stands and gets his coffee.

On most occasions, I am a much more serene person than Christophe; however, this is not one of those times. I find myself tapping the counter with my nails, waiting for the brew to finish. Perhaps it is because I have nothing else to do. No Christophe to watch, or annoy, no assignments to plan, no homework to breeze though, and discussions to be had. I am merely waiting for coffee to brew, tapping my shoes on the ground and drumming a rut into the granite. I eventually pour the pitch black liquid into the white ceramic bottom and leave the pot to cool. I will not drink the coffee, something Christophe would call blasphemous. I place it on the coaster and sit in Christophe's seat. I curl up, pulling my laptop across the coffee table, and decide to simply sit, even so much as pulling the quilt from the ottoman to cover my legs.

It is not often that I am given a chance to relax, and the coffee makes the room smell lived in. Like the maids haven't cleaned it twice a day for the past seven years, like Christophe is here, making himself coffee but hadn't yet had a chance to smoke. I presume that is what I made the coffee for. Sentimental remembrance for a fool, I suppose. He would laugh at me, if he even understood the sentiment, and drink the coffee, whether it is cold or not, because when you're a mercenary you don't complain about what you are given. He has told me this time and time again, and I must admit the phrase is beginning to aggravate. Sometimes, all I want to do is give him something nice, and he just doesn't quite understand that, says he doesn't have to have nice things.

But it is Christophe and he will say and think whatever he pleases. I wonder where he is, curling my bare toes around the corner of the couch. It is nearly eight in the evening, and I contemplate calling his home again, but his mother is not there to answer. She works at night. Plus, I highly doubt he would suddenly decide to go back home. No, he's out around town more than likely, being a teenager or taking revenge for something his classmates have done.

And yet I am anxious. I lift the coffee mug from its coaster, cradling the intense warmth in my palms, and staring into the dark depths, but it cannot give me the answers I seek. There's something peculiar about today, about Christophe being absent without leave that bugs me.

I laugh at myself, because he'd laugh at me too if he could read my mind. "I am thinking too much." I press the white ceramic to my lip, the steam fogging my vision as the smell of pure black coffee overwhelms my senses. It smells almost like him, and I again run my thumb along the writing along the side of _his _coffee mug. I make a mental note to make him a new coffee mug, one with both of our names on it, mine in my now formal cursive, and maybe I can get him to paint his own signature on the mug, though I highly doubt it'd be legible. He's as much a calligrapher as he is a diplomat.

At some point, I fall asleep on that couch, Christophe's coffee now cold in the pot in the kitchen and in the coffee mug on the end table, and my laptop slowly dying. He still hasn't arrived, and I fall asleep worried, and it is a dreamless sleep, one that wakes me up every few hours to remind me that Christophe is not here, typing at my laptop, smoking out the window, or contemplating something he'd never explain to me. And I realize, for the first time in the forefront of my brain, that I would miss those things if he were to suddenly disappear.


	3. Invisible

_**Invisible**_

**Third Chapter of the Gloves Series**

_whil-o-whisp_

_2,335 words_

_South Park, Gregory x Christophe/The Mole_

_A/N:Wow... Third chapter of Gloves. This is pretty epic. Maybe It'll beat out_ **_'Falling for you'_**_! I hope you all enjoy it, please review if you read, i love the feedback. Credit goes to my sister for some of the ideas and being a wonderful Beta._

_Disclaimer: Expecting something witty?_

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Another day without Christophe. I have yet to catch a glimpse of him since I arrived at school, not from lack of trying either. Though I cannot say I'm surprised. He is a junior, I am a sophomore; he walks in a completely different social circle than I do, or more, our circles of one do not interlock. He is as much of a loner as I am, though we are different breeds. Christophe is angry at the world, irritated with how they see things, and frustrated with their inability to see the world in the more natural light he does, instead of through their tinted glass. I, however, am a completely different type of recluse. I do not wish for their company, and they do not pursue my own. For all intents and purposes, I am invisible.

I find the interests of older, more experienced individuals more intriguing than the gossip and meaningless dribble of those my own age, more thought in the conversations of college students than the idiocy of high school students who know nothing beyond their tiny walls. I find no value in discussions on sex, drugs, parties, and rumors of the previous three and they do not find any interest in the topics I would converse upon. I walk among them and they ignore me, continuing their chatter as if I do not exist, and for this I am thankful.

Unfortunately, Christophe seems to interest them, much to my amusement. They seem to find intrigue in his mercenary jobs and several have even attempted to become, dare I say, friends with him. Very few succeed, Kenny and maybe Kyle Broflovski are the only ones worthy of note. I suppose we are less loners than more mature individuals. Christophe ignores the students our age, seeking out the company of anarchists; mercenaries, the dirtiest and grimiest, the truest of the people within our world, if not in word, than in profession.

However, finding these people, the upper echelon of my preferred company and Christophe's truer breed of acquaintances is very near impossible in South Park. There are three types of inhabitants within our tiny town: brainless drunks, do-good imbeciles, and the previous two's offspring. The entire North Park high school campus is filled with such asinine residents, their daily routines redundant and irritating. They talk needlessly loud, near screeching to students not five feet from them, gossiping incessantly over trivial endeavors, sports proceedings, and meaningless social events, the lives of celebrities, or individuals they neither know nor care about.

I find that today, more than any other, their actions irritate me, no, infuriate me. I am on edge; every slammed locker, every meaningless individual, every shouted word grates on my nerves. My mercenary is missing, Christophe is missing. I did not have the chance to question his mother on his whereabouts this morning either, and his absence of last night vexes me more than it should, and, though I am loath to admit it; worries me. Our respective professions gain us many an enemy, despite how invisible we try to be, and any of them would like nothing more than to catch us unawares and simply put us out of their misery.

However, Christophe can handle himself. He is strong, and he can defeat anyone who dares corner him… or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part.

"Ah! Another fine day! Kyahl has ammonia and there are no more faggy jews at schyool! Ay love life!" Eric Theodore Cartman. The boy has no finesse, no charm, and certainly no brains, he is one of the reasons I am thankful for my social invisibility. His supposed 'get-rich-quick' schemes that provide the death of his friends, the constant jabs at people less fortunate than he or different in any way, his anti-Semitic attitude, and how he thinks he is so much more intelligent than anybody around him; it all makes me wish he would give me a legitimate reason to sic Christophe on him. However, it would be down right impossible to wipe the death of the unfortunate louse from the media, which is quite unfortunate.

"It's Pneumonia you fucking r-tard!" Wendy Testaburger has sealed her fate with that line. I sigh, moving out of the line of fire. Despite my efforts, Cartman still manages to shove me out of his way, moving his bulbous waste of flesh in a near waddle toward Wendy. It almost seems he moves students through sheer mass alone as he moves eerily close to Wendy, snapping out insults left and right. She takes every slur personally, snapping back, threatening and cursing him viciously, almost enough to make even Christophe blush, but she doesn't seem to realize this only encourages the imbecile. Wendy is one of the more tolerable individuals at North Park High School, and one of the very few who notices me the moment I enter a room. However, even I cannot stand her company for very long. A class together is about my limit.

Truthfully, the argument is fruitless, and sooner or later, Wendy will realize that words and insults, even threats simply roll off of him. That the only thing Eric Cartman recognizes is brute force. And when she does, it will turn violent, bloody even. I have heard stories of their previous fight, and, if those stories are true, which, with their temper, I do not doubt they are, things will definitely become a bit complicated. The only reason the encounter doesn't come to blows, much to Cartman's luck, is because Leopold Stotch barrels by, nearly knocking over myself and Asher Johnson, the local angry 'goth'. Asher grumbles to himself as he slinks away towards the trash bins behind the school and Leopold, more commonly known as Butters, I believe, grabs onto Cartman's shirtsleeve, in an attempt to catch the boy's attention. "Hey! Eric!"

Eric stops, sparing the tiny blonde a look. "Where the hell were you yesterday, Butters?" Cartman asks scathingly, his attention drawn away from the furious woman he'd been goading. I linger, only half listening to their conversation. Butters seems excited, more so than usual. Perhaps that is what my caught my attention…

"Guess what I saw yesterday, Eric!" He squeaks, trailing behind the swollen boy.

"Go away Butters." Cartman grumbled, pinching his nose, obviously displeased with Butter's presence. I smile. Perhaps Butters is Cartman's punishment, though I hardly believe the naïve boy is enough retribution for all of Eric Cartman's wrongdoings. He doesn't listen to the Blonde's story, not even when 'the Mole' is mentioned, but I do. I hang on every word.

"Eric! Yesterday, in the morning, I saw that Mole kid walking to school with his shovel, an it was pretty gosh darn scary, because, uh, when we got off of uh, Main Street, this huge white van pulls up out of nowhere!" My stomach knots, twisting in a sickening way. A large white van? What was Christophe doing near Butter's route anyway? The two live on opposite sides of town… unless Christophe was being followed. Christophe has this habit of wandering when he knows he's being followed. "And these big men jump out, one of them had a mustache an' a tattoo on his head, and he looked really scary. There had to be five guys, Eric!" I trail after them, ignored. Butters doesn't realize his friend isn't listening, but that I am.

"And this big guy with uh, with a hat jumps out of the van and he said something about a murder and they told him they wanted the evidence back, and jiminy I was scared. They kicked the crap out of the Mole, but uh, he got a few good hits in. Walloped one guy and broke his nose! But uh, they still threw him in the big white van…" My heart stops for a moment and I swallow; a feeble attempt to quell the queasiness that overtakes me. "I was so scared, I ran right home, yep I did. But, uh, they were scary, Eric, they coulda easily kicked the stuffing out of me, Eric." He goes on and on about how scary it was, myself following the two for every step, thankfully unnoticed; listening for any more important information.

I stop, watching Cartman walk into his class, and I stand there, motionless as Butters departs, and even after, when Butters has disappeared, I stand. The halls empty, the bell echoing somewhere in my conscious, but nowhere near where I lurk.

A murder, wanting evidence back. I know exactly what has happened, and this is my fault. A whole day… Christophe has been gone a whole day. I feel my stomach lurch uncomfortably, attempting to leap out of my throat. Anxiety. I am anxious. Christophe has been taken because of that brainless fool, because I gave him the job from that brainless fool, because I didn't turn that idiotic job down. I didn't tell him no, that I don't delve into needless politics, I send my mercenary on interesting jobs, jobs that Christophe can challenge himself with, not get killed in. I didn't tell him no and now my Mercenary has been kidnapped right from under my nose, right from the streets of South Park.

Nobody notices me as I head for my car, dipping my fingers into my pocket for the stainless steel keys. Unlike my Mercenary, I drive to School. I refuse to endanger myself like that. Unlike my Mercenary, I have enough money to repair any damage an aggressive student happens to inflict. I almost choke on my stomach again as I seat myself in the comfortable faux leather seats, faux because I do not condone the killing of animals for skins, and I turn over the engine. I sit there in the parking lot for a moment, my brain spinning and frankly making me a bit sick at my stomach.

My Mercenary… **my** Christophe has been kidnapped because of a job I shouldn't have given him, a job I shouldn't have taken. Christophe has been gone for a little more than twenty-four hours, most missing persons cases are solved within forty-eight, and that is with professional forensic help, evidence, and multiple witnesses. All I have is one fool's account. I pull out of the parking lot a bit quicker than I need to.

I lift the phone to my ear after dialing, listening to the dull tone before my Mother picks up. "Mother, I'm going to be going out of town for a little while." She asks the mandatory questions, obviously busy with something, too busy to remember it's a school day. Even to her I am invisible. "I won't be gone long… Yes mother, I promise to do my homework… I'll be back before you and Father return." I smile, letting the fake smile shine through my voice as she prattles on. I turn onto the freeway, my mind on completely different topics than homework.

"I'm going to pick up a friend, Mother. I'll see you soon. I love you."

The drive is quick because I'm breaking the law. Officer Barbrady doesn't care; he's too much of an idiot to even know the speed limit either way. It's silent, only the hum of the engine and my thoughts to occupy me. I'm planning, and re-planning, and I have no idea how this is going to work out, because I'm not in control here. I don't control the variables but I will not let this be taken from me. I won't let **him** be taken from me. Even if it means getting my hands dirty.

I will no longer stand behind Christophe and letting him do all the dirty work while I stay pristine. My invisibility has been nice while it lasted, but now it was time to do something for myself. I take a deep breath as I pull up to the small, quaint Denver house. A black Mercedes Benz CLS class sits in the driveway, and I park at the curb. I breathe again, closing my eyes and counting.

Christophe would laugh at me, if he were here. Getting all worked up over him is something he can't understand. He doesn't quite comprehend how familiar I've become with his presence, how glad I am for his presence. Despite his big talk and his indifference, he has such a low opinion of himself. Despite his supposed delusions of grandeur, he still has the complexes of a seventeen-year-old kid. Because he is a child. I am a child. We're just children playing around in the underbelly of the world. But I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I wouldn't trade knowing Christophe for all the money in the world, as sappy as it sounds. He is my friend. His intelligence may be nowhere near my own, and he may gain all the attention where I fade into the scenery, but he is my friend. I glance at the glove box. I had gotten a gun after the bullet incident in the eighth grade, fully registered and pristine. I haven't yet had to use it; it's more a precaution than anything. But there it sits, fully loaded, well oiled, and perfect.

I pull it from its holster, sliding my fingers over the black metal. Sometimes, when I drive Christophe to a job, or when we're just going somewhere, he'll toy with it; loading and unloading the cartridges in a rhythmic, demented and beautiful dance, his dark eyes glittering. I always wonder what's going on behind those beautiful eyes, those eyes that notice me in a crowd, that see me no matter where we are. The eyes that know I'm not as invisible as I think.

I click off the safety and slide the stomach holster around my waist, just beneath my shirt. I put the gun in place and cover it, turning off the car. I suppose it is time to make myself visible.

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_A/N: *whistle* that took a long time to make. Four Betas, One complete overhall, Two revisions, and only a week :D Hope you all enjoyed, review please~_


	4. Guns

_**Guns**_

_**by Whil-o-whisp**_

**_words: 2,570_**

**_A/n: sigh. now that I have that out of my system. This chapter was freakind difficult! Freaking christ. Okay, lets go through what this friggen thing went through, shall we? It was written in two weeks because I have issues with dialogue, and then, it took a month to beta cus my sister wasn't up to it, and then I rewrote it, and then she had to beta it again and then I rewrote it again, and she took two months to beta it, and then I took a couple weeks to futz around and not write on it until I just friggen rewrote it again and sent it back to her. She took a couple weeks to beta it and then I didn't want to edit it. So I finally edited it and sent it back and forth between us for two days hammering it out and you get this imperfect piece of crud. You better enjoy it : |_**

**_Disclaimer: I own insanity not southpark. Jesus, get it straight._**

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I knock three times on the thick oak door before flexing my fingers numbly, an attempt to shake off the vibrations throbbing along my hand. I step back away from the door, casting a glance at the nearby window. Although I do not expect a quick answer from the home's occupant, I smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt either way. If my speculations are correct, I hardly believe he is awake yet. The yard and driveway simply scream of college parties: the yellow grass streaked with drunken tire tracks, the Mercedes Benz adorned with key scratches and the air stale with alcohol.

Inside, I hear the voice of Robert Floats, an associate whose informational work was once second to none. He had all the right connections, though, I suppose, even the greatest must fall. He fell hard, and fast, and working with the wrong person. I take an even, calming breath, carefully touching the gun pressing into my back, palming the frigid steel beneath my shirt. I almost smile. Christophe purchased this gun for me, illicitly, of course. He bought it for us, just in case. He wanted to make sure I could fight, instead of, as he put it, "Pulling 'air like a breetish pansy". He seems to find calling me this hilarious.

When we were in the eighth grade I think, although my memory is slightly faulty at the moment, I proposed he teach me. At first he was, at best, reluctant, but I eventually swayed him. It was only a few short months before the bullet incident, if I remember correctly, and every afternoon before and after that day, we practiced for hours together with that gun, a simple, older model he found in his attic, one his father left behind when he left Christophe for good. It was fun, like a little play date for us, a time to be children, though, I suppose most children do not consider play time to include shooting rubber bullets from a modified illegal handgun in my backyard. But, by that time, both of us were completely immersed into the darker side of business, and other things such as cartoons, comics, fart jokes and computer games just didn't interest us. We were bored and plastering our skulls to electronics didn't cut it. Guns could.

We were not as close then, though I believe that the… closeness started around that time, with that gun. Even to this day I remember those afternoons, and his supposed lessons, though I use this term loosely. He preferred showing to telling, often manipulating my hands and arms into position like some pose-able doll. I remember how extremely warm his hands felt and how stifling his gaze was. I made it a point to push his buttons as much as possible in our time together, if only to make him angry, a hobby I have carried over to today. He's almost cute when he's angry. I can only imagine how he must look now. He must be furious.

I will never hear the end of this if I get him back. **When **I get him back.

My throat involuntarily tightens as the door groans, swinging open with rusted difficulty. Robert, a red headed college student with wide set eyes and coke bottle glasses, stands before me, stuffing a top of the line cell phone into his breast pocket. He's thin, freckled, pimpled, gangly, pale and unattractive. "Greg! Hey! What's up dude? Ya need something?" His voice is forcibly relaxed as he steps aside, allowing me entrance into his home. It reeks of beer, body spray and stale sex. As I step past the entranceway I exhale quietly, trying not to breathe in the horrible fumes. I don't know what to say, and I must admit that frightens me a bit. "Uh, Greg? You want a drink or something?"

"No." I turn to face him, smoothing my shirt over the frame of the gun, as much for the assurance of its location, the power I still had, as to keep from touching the filth that is this house. I am unused to the weight of a gun against my spine, but the power that it gives me is very familiar, despite the foreign feeling of sharp edges on my skin. I suppose, though, I have not had control for a very long time. And that scares me. Every time I loose control, without fail, I loose something, or some one, very close to me.

The last time, the first time I ever gave up control, the first time I let somebody else take the lead, my only friend died. And now, he might again. That time, I was stupid, and I was young. This time, I did not get all the information for Christophe, I did not have the ability to steer him in the right direction, to give him what he needed to finish this simple mission without being caught. He was forced to improvise because of my lack of insight, and now he is paying for it. "Is anyone else here?" I don't want anybody else around for my… interrogation.

"Is anyone…? Nah, dude, Just you 'n me. Whadya need?" He smiles cheerfully, moving to sit in a plush chaise lounge. He smiles, cheerful and fake, as he swallows. He's nervous, though I have yet to give him reason for it. Seems he is smarter than I assumed.

I put on a nice façade, all smiles and diplomacy. "How did the job go? Did you get your… evidence back?" He smiles again, relieved, but avoids eye contact with me, staring past my right ear.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I got it back. Anonymous drop off just like you said…" He titters off meekly, swallowing and placing one filthy foot on the expensive leather. "Everything's all good, dude. What, was that all you came for?" He laughs tersely, fidgeting with the top buttons on his shirt, watching me in a nervous way. I smile, and he smiles back, but we smile for entirely different reasons. I smile because it keeps me from screaming at him, it keeps me from pulling the gun out and killing him, but he smiles because he thinks everything is 'all good'. I am not sure anything is 'all good'.

"Ah, good." The smile doesn't fade, but it isn't real, a sad imitation of the truth, but close enough to fool a fool. A child like him does not deserve a real smile. "Now that the work is done, might I ask what this was all about? I'm rather curious, I'm embarrassed to say." I'm not. He laughs, just once, and looks away, searching for the right answer, the answer that will sedate my 'curiosity' and get me out of his house. The pulse in his neck is quivering, and I can see sweat on his brow. He's scared, and foolish. There isn't an answer that will make me leave.

I suppose he decides on, "Oh, uh, yeah, sure. I don't see why not." I take a quick breath as I press the hand to the gun again. He continues, "There was this, uh, this murder. I mean, really brutal murder of this one lady, probably by a gang or the mafia or something and they uh, they lied to make it seem like my dad did it so he'd loose his job and go to jail." This isn't new information. I have heard about Senator Jon Floats' investigation for the rape and brutal murder of his secretary. Robert pulls at his collar and swallows past a lump in his throat, the sound loud in the silent room. "So, uh, he's under this big investigation thing cus of them."

"So, they, uh, they thought everything was working great till my dad found some evidence or something that proves it was this other dude and he was going to show the police and stuff when he got back from Washington, so the other dude, he… uh, he… he-." He trails off, finally looking me in the eye, completely by accident. His eyes are beady, wavering and watching me with what I assume is rapt fear.

I have control.

I motion for him to go on and he nods, swallowing again. "So, uh, he, the guy, he got somebody to sneak in during one of my parties and stole it, and I'd be in really big trouble if he found out, ya know? So I called you! My best compadre when it comes to the shady thing, ya know? And you got your merc to get it all done and everything's all good! Dad's never gotta know." He smiles, all braces and tartar. Bile burns my throat, my stomach churning. He really is as ignorant as he looks.

I run a finger over the gun, digging past the thick holster. I have kept my arms behind my back this entire time, carefully fingering the cold metal almost without thinking. I don't need to loose my temper just yet. I am in control, and as long as he maintains the status quo, I might not have to loose my temper at all. "It seems everything is not as… 'All good'," the words feel foreign and childish in my mouth, "as you seem to think, Robert. In fact, things have become complicated." My words are clipped and cold, my eyes dead.

"C…Complicated?" He stutters, placing both feet on the ground once more before bringing them back up to the cushions. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" His laugh dies in his throat, as I knew it would. Most seem to see things my way. In fact, I was once told, by a _darling _French mercenary, that I was the most frighteningly persuasive British 'pansy' he had ever met. I'm still debating whether I am to be flattered or insulted by the statement, but I do not hesitate to use it to my advantage.

"My Mercenary is missing. Taken, more like, and I want him back." I pause a moment to consider this. My mercenary. I seem to be thinking that a lot lately. He's mine, yes, he belongs to me and because of this addle minded idiot, he's gone.

"Your… your merc? Dude, hah, just get a new one! I mean…" He tries to laugh it off, but I am not laughing. He straightens, stuttering and choking before slouching again. "It's not like they aren't replaceable or nothing!" He laughs again, trying desperately to brighten the mood. To coin a colloquial phrase, he's grasping for straws. He breaths thorough his nose and rubs at his thighs nervously. "They're tools of the trade, right? They use guns, you use them." It's a horrible analogy, and highly ignorant. Mercenaries do not just use guns. Few intelligent ones limit themselves to such a weapon, and surely not my mercenary. He's pushing a thin line, and I can see it in those eyes, he knows it.

"Just uh… Just put a hit on him or whatever you guys call it and it'll be all good. Your name'll stay safe and you can continue whoring your workers to the highest bidder." He seems to find this funny. Another horrible analogy, and I now feel we won't be able to resolve this without me loosing my temper. A shame really. He watches my arm move behind my back, pushing under the hem of my shirt to grasp at the gun.

"Really…"

"Yeah! I mean, he got caught so he can't've been all that good! Look, Greg, I know this guy who can hook you up with this new man, good one too! Not some retard like the last one, right? Right Greg? Gregory?" His laugh withers and rots in the air as he looks me in the eye again. I can see my reflection in his grimy glasses and I suppose he has every right to give pause. If looks could kill, I do not believe the coroners would even have enough for an autopsy.

And rightly so. How dare he? My blood boils, and my head aches. My breaths fuel a fire behind my eyes, scorching my cheeks, I'm livid. He laughs weakly, leaning away from me and looking away, looking anywhere but at me. How dare this imbecile treat the life of my mercenary, of Christophe, as a toy? Treat him as if he were a simple two-bit whore for him to use and toss. What right has he? I do not hold any delusions of sainthood and neither I, nor anyone I care for, will gain a seat behind the pearly gates, but I believe there are special circles or hell for men like Robert Floats.

My jaw clenches and every inch of me tenses as this brat just keeps talking.

"I mean… yeah, if he was stupid enough to get caught he must have been a retard. Just some damn kid, am I right, Greg? Just off him and get a new one." His small eyes flicker and he licks his lips, but now he can't look away. His breaths whistle through his nose and he smiles. "I uh, I mean…" I don't care what he means. I want him dead.

The quick steps I take are a blur, and I pull the gun from the holster, heavy but balanced in my small hands. My voice is loud and angrier then I anticipated. "Shut up." I press the thick metal to his forehead, the heavy rush of blood in my ears blocking out his frantic, frightened breaths. Somehow, the awkward weight of the gun is warm, and it feels exhilaratingly good to have my finger on the trigger, a mere twitch away from ending a life, from pulling the trigger myself for the first time on a job.

I love the power in my hand; the control of a gun is exponentially more heady than a sword. While both are weapons, murderous and beautiful in their own right, there is just something more alluring about guns.

Unlike guns, swords are for chivalry, fair play, talent and diplomacy. Perfectly balanced and precise but primitive, blood stained to their core. While I fancy myself a swordsman, I do not ignore their faults. Swords are slow, weighty and ill concealed, meant to humiliate and murder artfully and elegantly, and used to lead others to do the same. Swords are for leaders. Swords are leaders.

Guns, on the other hand are for cruelty, violence, blunt piercing bullets shredding skin and breaking bone. Guns take very little talent, just a touch of learned skill and natural instincts. Guns are blood stained, but rarely touched by their own carnage, inflicted several feet, or yards, or miles away. Guns are disconnected, to kill with no regard for anything: family, life, or regrets, just their future; a bloody smear and an eventual shallow grave. Guns are a tool, a tool for murder, destruction and death. A hired hand that some would do anything to get away from, or move towards. A mercenary.

I speak slowly, because every muscle in my body screams to pull the trigger, and it's difficult to think straight. "Where is my mercenary?"

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_**A/n: LADIFREAKINGDA! Okay, despite what I said up there, I had fun writing this and its a good chapter. So, review and favorite or don't and give my beta her props. She's an awesome beta. There will probably be two more chapters to this so it will probably not beat out falling for you.**_


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